The Tragedie of Michael Jackson, King of Pop

KING
Aye, but what perplexes me,
Is the nature of thy game.
(To Sir Paul)Waste not thy time, for the Queen is mine

SIR PAUL:
She has but this night confided
That I be her eternal lover.

KING:
After me, she said, she will ne'er love another.
Begone! Thou mak'st me want to scream.

Exeunt all except The King

O calumny thou hast torn my life askew!

Of trees and hungry starved there are few;

Yet I as Messiah will speak my peace,

Brave children I shall enlist, low in grease,

For minor are my misfortunes to God,

When considereth thou the wretched law of Sod,

I am the light which earth shalt illumine,

To banish hellwise bowls for Columbine.

What of the trees? What of the dying birds?

What of the children whom I mistake not for turds?

For God am I, I am namdam forsooth,

Or would be had not Randy robbed me of wisdom tooth...

Enter abruptly SIR JARVAIS OF COCKAIGNE:

SIR JARVAIS:

"Begone, false prophet, for thou durst speakest tosh!

Your pitiful pretensions are unfit e'en for nosh!

Roaches shalt never climb your quadruple-garotted walls,

As evidenced by your lack of recordings by the Falls.

For Princess Janet hath taken all thy cred,

Whilst thou indulgest in filth and sausage atop thy bed!

She now hath the trust of Courtier Beenieman

Whilst you would be fortunate to attract a 90-summers-old Exeter fan!

I embrace the future, Ladytron and Electralane,

Thou wretched sneitch, doomest e'ermore to Sir Toby Keith's pain!

He blows his bottom at THE KING and exits, stage left.

(Curtain)

ACT THREE
The business district of an unnamed American city with lots of buildings and signs in it that often include the words 'New Yorke.'

THE KING enters.]

THE KING
Having thus confounded this mighty wound
I must now confront the evils of this land
For my home realm now falls prey to Yorke
And a new city raises itself in mockery
To my plans and devices for a golden age
Of glory against the forces of despite
Who would yet seek to destroy what I hold dear.
What horrors are seen here among these citizens!
Picks up a Village Voice
Some scribblers here proclaim the sons of Yorke
To be the bearers of deep meaning and truth
A HEALEY, so-named, yet he cannot heal his soul
And a Lord MARTIN who clearly wets his bed
Or some uncouth former ally of the Sony board
Once said in a moment of outraged passion
Brought on by excess of red meat and wine.
Nay nay, I must fight this idiocy sublime
For the world will understand how I champion
Their causes and dreams, their deep motives.

Enter a CITIZEN, dressed in strange and colourful garb.

Good dweller of this land! I am here to free thee
From the horrible bonds of YORKE that have ensnared
You and your fellow dwellers for too long.
Come follow me, your rightful lord and master!

CITIZEN
'Sblood, thou stinkard, remove thy prating follies
From this fair island that truly inhabits the center
Of the Known Universe (or so I keep hearing from others
Who have never in fact left it to live elsewhere).
We have no need of thy follies anymore now that we have
A truer set of lords and masters.

THE KING
But Yorke!
He is no king of thine.

CITIZEN
Yorke is but a chimera
In these days of plenty and calm. We now worship
The better sovereigns of a truly New Yorke --
The good lords CASABLANCAS and NELLY, and not only them
But the mighty Queen MISSY and her oft-talked frappe
Not to mention Princess AGUILERA and her tantrum fits
And the Northern Duchess LAVIGNE, who speaks of Bois.
These in fact give us the hope and reaches we need
In this time when chimpanzees pretend to rule the land
From houses painted in white and surrounded by guards.
For we must have a modern hope and not thy spewings.

KING: What manner of monster are thee? Why hast thou daughter forsaken me in my need? My kingdom for a pie! My kingdom for a pie!

exeunt

MICHAEL
'Struth, I shall rally my own musical forces, and reclaim the charts that formerly were mine! (hums a little riff that resolves into "Got to Be Startin' Somethin")

MICHAEL stops abruptly in front of a portrait of Sieur Thomas De La Mottola.

MICHAEL
Why did I not see this before?
DE LA MOTTOLA is the author of my woe!
He underfunded my most recent campaign
Because he scorns those of the sable strain!

MICHAEL pulls out a pencil and scribbles a devil's horns and goatee on the portrait. Enter stage right the ghost of ELVIS I.

ELVIS
What? I am the one who is ectoplasm
Yet is my son-in-law the greater phantasm?

MICHAEL
Heavens! My eyes pop forth from my head!
But wait just a sec--is the KING really dead?

ELVIS
Aye, I have been dead these 25 years
But sometimes I do walk this earth, in tears.
In Rock-and-Roll Heaven there's a hell of a band
But never a peanut butter and banana sandwich at hand.
And I will try to help a musician in strife
To help them with this thing called life.

MICHAEL (excitedly)
Who has thou visited in their house of pain?
Courtney LOVE? Robert SMITH?

ELVIS
Uh, Kurt COBAIN?
But dwell not on how others did fail
Now, now you must haste to save your own tail.
Do you remember just how I died?

MICHAEL
Straining on the toilet, ass open wide?

ELVIS
You fool! I mean how death did me tug,
By many a greasy sandwich and prescription drug.
The COLONEL and DOCTOR FEELGOODE, together
Catered to my every whim, whateversoever.
If I could perform, I was their gold-laying goose.
But they did not see that I was in a noose.
They gave me whatever I thought I did need
Yet hastened me to my grave at headlong speed.
You are similarly protected by flacks
And this shield causes the strength of the attacks
Launched upon you by those critical hacks.
Banish your yes-men, think for yourself;
In here who truly profits from your wealth?
You must face the consequences of your actions
And study what renders musical satisfactions.
I hope you can do this; once a young boy
Sang "We are the world," and gave the world joy.
You can regain your spirit, audience, niche
Now where might a hungry ghost find a sandwich?

MICHAEL
Turn left, and go to the end of that hall.

ELVIS exits stage left.

MICHAEL
Is all that true? Can I rewin it all?

Curtain

Enter some GRAVEDIGGAZ, with shovels, led by the RZA.

SHABAZZ:
I musta looked upon his poster a thousand times
Musta sung his songs and rhymed his rhymes
And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rims at it! What kind of sick shit is
That? Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft -- but nobody call me faggot
I'm as normal as my man Ned Raggett
'To be or not to be?' Fuck it
Death comes to all, can't no man duck it

GRYM REAPER:
You was the Grymmest -- where be your gibes now?
Your gambols? your songs? your thrillers and gore
That were wont to set the MTV awards on a roar?
Not one now, to mock your own grinning?
Where be your boys, your monkeys and women?
You fucked up chicken, now you just got fried
It was self-inflicted regicide

MASTA ASE:
Lost was the king in his golden cage
But there was no way out of the death race
The skull we kiss was once a face
Hear the eulogy of Masta Ase!

PRINCE RAKEEM / RYZARECTOR:
Yeah, more graves to dig. Goodbye
There's no need to cry...
... cause we all die

(Exeunt)

CURTAIN

A flashbomb explodes and a huge bassline erupts from concealed speakers. THE FIGURE clutches its thrusting pelvic girdle, releases a bloodcurdling whoop then, powered by a tiny jetpack, shoots up to the Royal Circle box, grabs Iman from a thunderstruck David Bowie, and, dragging her behind him, soars towards a small open skylight in the roof of the theatre. The two fleeing silhouettes, visible for some minutes against a huge full moon, resemble nothing so much as Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.

Oh, the giraffe, babe, has such teeth, dear
And it shows them pearly white
Just a jacko has old MacWacko, babe
And he keeps it, ah, out of sight (you know where)
Ya know when that bubble bites with his teeth, babe
Scarlet billows start to spread
Fancy glove, oh, wears old MacWack, Jack
So there’s never, never a trace of red

Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh
Lies a body just oozin' life, (what's that sound?)
And someone’s sneakin' ‘round the corner
Could that someone be Mack the Knife?

There's a tugger, huh, huh, down by the river dontcha know
Where a cement bag’s just a'drooppin' on down-cha
Oh, that cement is just, it's there for the police, dear
Five'll get ya ten old Macky’s back in town
Now d'ja hear ‘bout Emmanual Webster? He disappeared, babe
After drawin' out all his hard-on lash
And now Macwack shoots just like a sailor
Could it be our boy's seen his crotch rash?

Now Brookie Shields, ho, (she was a) ho, yeah, Lizzie Taylor
Ooh, Miss Lisa Marie and old Britney S
Oh, the line forms on the right, babe
Now that Macky’s back in town

I said Lisa Simpson, whoa, La Toyah's snake
Look out to Miss Aguillera and old Macauley too
Yes, that line forms on the right, babe
Now that Macky’s back in town.....

However, he'll get the "OJ Syndrome": celebrity gets him off

ACT ONE

A sleepy provincial town on coastal waters. ENTER THE KING

THE KING
Odds bodkins! I am summoned by cold men
To answer claims and charges that I
Who only ever wished to heal this grievous world
Have caused damages and harm to those
Whom I would love in a most tender way
Not the way they would have it of course.
But their damned lies will fly forth quickly
And then fall gasping and panting to the ground
Whilst I, sculpted and shaped to transcend this sphere,
Will be the long runner o'er their corpses of untruths
As I will then be free to return to a peaceful valley
And complete my latest entertainment!

AN OFFICER OF THE LAND approaches

OFFICER
Sir, your fingerprints, and your visage
We must have images of both so that
Your whereabouts will be easily found

THE KING [outraged]
All know where I can be found at any time!
For I am your king and you cannot question
My divine image of grace and beauty.

OFFICER
That is as may be, sir, but we must also have
Three million ducats and your papers of passage
For we deem you a threat of flight from our land

THE KING
Insolence! But here
(withdraws items)
As you demand it, there.
Take them if you must, but those who know me
Will know that my word is my bond

OFFICER (somewhat bored)
Um, indeed sir, we would never question that.
Now excuse me, please, for I have a press conference.

I thought it was young boys that got him off.

THE KING
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world:
And for because the world is populous
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.
The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With scruples and do set the word itself
Against the word:
As thus, 'Come, little ones,' and then again,
'It is as hard to come as for a camel
To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.'

[grabs crotch]

Thus play I in one person many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar,
And so I am: then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king'd again: and by and by
Think that I am unking'd by Sneddon,
And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be,
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased
With being nothing. Music do I hear?

[Thriller motif sounds offstage; faint laughter of Vincent Price]

Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is,
When time is broke and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men's lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To cheque time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

[more offstage music; faint “the kid is not my son”]

Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours: but my time
Runs posting on in Sneddon's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
This music mads me; let it sound no more;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Michael
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

[Blackout; offstage whisper: “who's bad?”]

LADY LATOYA
[madly] You there, Foo, come heel to me. And Your Highness,
I request an audience to dsicuss
A mattter most urgent. Prithee, draw near.
[aside]What fortune, what chance! With these steps my plan
Nears fruition! The players set, curtain
Ready, my scheme -- but hold! Tis time!
[to both]Far be it for one of my station low
To pose this query so: if this drama be,
And more, be true, should not you, rustic clown,
Speak free from poesie and rather in prose
To designate proper your vulgar place?
Unless! Unless! Yes, there is more, and less!
I have stumbled on a masquerade,
The Fool, true King, whilst yon Jackson -- knave!

[The King's face begins to melt]

LADY LATOYA
Mine eyes! His nose detached and fall'n! Syphilitic?
Plastic alchemy 'come parasitic?

Though my enemies fade me
I am innocent of these foul crimes
and though this judge dost lord o'er me
still I shall dance atop this SUV.

IT IS TIME!

Enter THE KING, MISS JANET, SIR PAUL, SIR MICK, the consul for the defence URI GELLER and for the prosecution ALEX IN NYC.

THE KING: Actually, not since 1986.

THE KING: 'Tis just another part of me.

only jackson thread that matters

so true

<3 this thread - hope someone steps up for the epilogue

I'll make some calls.

^^^to all the above

But hush, what commotion is this? Methinks the king or someone else arrives. I'll to to the arrass, conceal myself and watch what business shall unfold!

ultimate fucked-up child star, move along, nothing to see here, folks

Wow.

SIR PAUL
A glooming peace o'er Neverland this day.
Peter Pan for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of death of pop;
Biographies rewritten, concerts cancelled.
The Earth song will be sung in far flung lands;
For never was a HIStory of more woe
Than this of Michael and his Billie Jean.

http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/that-was-it-the-tragic-tale-of-our-king-michael-jackson/Event?oid=7050531

That Was It: The Tragic Tale of Our King Michael Jackson

Tongue firmly in cheek, playwright C.J. Tuor borrows the structure of a Greek tragedy (plus a few tricks from Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht) to tell the King of Pop's life story. Director-choreographer Ali Keirn embellishes Tuor's extremely witty tale -- featuring a chorus that intones lyrics from Jackson hits -- with eccentric dramatic poses, overwrought modern-dance tableaux, and lots of trademark Jackson moves. But what really sells this high-energy comedy is the cast's ability to win laughs even as they lay bare the pathos in Jackson's story. Playing Jackson pre- and post-plastic surgery respectively, Tom Daily and Emily Goldberg are particularly winning. —Jack Helbig